


Mouthwatering

by MusicalLuna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Captured, Chains, Creepy, Gen, Horror, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Late at Night, Mississippi, Monster of the Week, No Sex, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Reconciliation, Shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have been captured by a nasty creature that takes the form of whatever--or whomever--it feeds on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Morning, When I Wake

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place somewhere in season one or two, where in particular is up to you.
> 
> I started this for Skysalla in chat one night. Then a month later, I added some more. And then a little more. And then suddenly it needed to be a real story. In the end, it got what it wanted.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own either Sam or Dean, tragically. I do own the creature-feature of this fic, however. :)

When Sam wakes up he's chained to the floor by his left ankle, hands shackled together. He can feel the throb of his pulse against the inside of his wrists, skin against skin, just after every beat of his heart. Dean is across the room, wrists shackled to the wall over his head. He's standing--or he would be if he weren't unconscious. His booted toes just barely graze the cobbled stone floor. If he were awake he could probably stand on his tip toes and take the pressure off of his abused wrists. But he's not awake.

"Dean?" Even to his own ears Sam's voice is brittle, like sheet metal pounded too thin.

His brother doesn't move, head hanging down, chin against his chest. Sam swallows, fear swelling in his lungs until he can't make room for breath.

"Dean?" he tries again, and there's a note of pleading in the roughness of his voice. Their prison is dim, lit only by moonlight trickling in through a barred grate near the ceiling on the wall to the left. The light leaves pale stripes across Dean's t-shirt, over his ribs and the waistband of his jeans, but it's not enough for Sam to make out whether or not he's breathing.

He has to be breathing. He _has_ to.

If they hadn't been involved in their _stupid_ argument they wouldn't have been caught by surprise--they would have been able to fight back--if he hadn't been so _stupid--_

"Dean, come on," he cajoles, trying to convince himself his brother is just messing with him. He's holding his breath on purpose, just--teaching him a lesson.

Dad had always told them that personal issues were for after the job was done. Arguments and hurt feelings had to be put aside until after the hunt, because all it took was one distraction and then it was all over.

Sam bites his lip to try and combat the tightening of his throat.

_Stupid!_

He tests the weight of the chain and finds it manageable, if hefty. He won't be going for a run with it, but getting closer to Dean should be doable. So he wipes his nose with the back of his wrist and then braces his hands on the floor. He drags his feet under him, but it's not until he puts real weight on them that he discovers something is wrong with the unshackled leg. A sharp cry of pain slips from his mouth and he buckles to the cold stone floor, pain dancing up and down his leg in fiery bolts.

He's still lying face down on the floor with his cheek pressed against the stone, panting, when he sees Dean's head twitch out of the corner of his eye.

The pain is forgotten in an instant. "Dean!" he breathes out and pushes up on his hands and knees, scrambling forward. His leg screams in outrage and he cries out again, dropping back to the floor until he's curled up, almost in the fetal position.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice, soft and weak as it is, sends a rush of relief through Sam so strong it washes away the lingering agony. It takes more effort this time, but he pushes up on his elbows and looks up at his brother, trying to stifle the urge to sniffle like a little kid. "Dean? Dean, oh thank God," he chokes. He takes a deep breath and swallows, stamping down the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

Dean pulls at his restraints, trying to lower his arms, and confusion washes over his features as he discovers that they're pinned. His eyes roll up to stare at the shackles, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks back down at Sam and rasps, "What the hell?"

Sam shakes his head. His leg is throbbing, but Dean is awake, which means he's not dead, so he's okay with that. They can figure this out together. "I don't know," he says. "I guess it got us while we were arguing."

"It," Dean repeats. "What the hell is _it?_ " He tugs at his wrists again experimentally and his face pulls into a grimace, a sharp hiss drawing in between his teeth. His awareness is growing, as evidenced by the shuffling of his feet as he adjusts, trying to find a way to relieve the pressure on his arms.

"I don't know," Sam answers honestly. "Whatever brought us here, I guess."

Finally, Dean sighs and resigns himself to being uncomfortable. "Fantastic," he grumbles. "So what the hell do we do now?"

Sam's face twitches in a grimace. "I don't suppose you have a lock pick?"

"Of course I do," Dean retorts, "but it's not exactly like I can reach it, now is it, Princess?"

"So that's a no," Sam says with a sigh and wonders why he wanted his brother awake in the first place.

~ * ~

Sam can't be sure, seeing as his watch had gotten smashed somewhere between yelling at Dean and finding himself chained to the floor, but he thinks almost two hours have passed by the time the heavy door on the right wall opens.

Both he and Dean scramble to attention, watching with their hackles raised as it swings open, almost in slow motion.

There is no light from the other side.

Sam holds his hands out in front of him, even though it would be next to impossible to fend off any kind of attack with them pinned together like they are.

To his right, Dean gets the first glimpse of whatever's on the other side and he mutters, "You have got to be kidding me."

Sam frowns. Somehow, that doesn't seem like the appropriate reaction.

Then, finally, the door swings open far enough for him to see, too, and he stares.

It's a little girl.


	2. In the Morning, When I Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean find themselves in a dank underground prison in the clutches of a creature that wants more than just a taste of them.

She looks maybe eight years old with long black hair tied in braids on either side of her head. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, eyes a freakishly pale color that reminds Sam of some of the ghosts they've hunted. Only she's definitely not a ghost. She's too...solid.

She steps inside the room, tiny little mouth pursed, her legs thin and white beneath an even whiter sun dress with a big blue bow around the waist.

"Are you shitting me?" Dean demands. "What the hell is this? I did _not_ get captured by a freakin' little girl!"

The girl's pale eyes drift slowly over to look at Dean and a chill worms down Sam's spine. Dean shuts up, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he eyeballs the little girl warily.

There's a catch. There has to be, because Dean's right. There's no way some scrawny little girl got the jump on them and dragged them off to this...whatever.

The low hum of unease in Sam's stomach revs and jumps into overdrive when the little girl smiles.

"Glad you're awake," she says, voice like a faint breeze.

Dean's lip curls in a sneer, but Sam recognizes the subtle hesitation belying fear. "I'd be gladder if I wasn't strapped to the damn wall."

The little girl isn't listening to him anymore. Her eyes have moved back to Sam and the fear is suddenly very near terror, his mouth going dry, sweat gathering on his temples. He swallows hard, unsure of what he's afraid of, but eager to get space between them nevertheless. He shuffles backward on his butt, stopping only when pain flares up in his leg, electric.

It distracts him and when he looks up, the little girl is standing right there, just inches away.

He sucks in a gasp and breathes, " _Dean!_ "

The shackles around Dean's wrists rattle as he pulls at them, snarling, "Get away from him, you little bitch!"

She ignores him, smiling at Sam. "I just want a taste," she says softly, wrapping one small hand around his arm.

Sam can't pull away no matter how hard he yanks.

Dean continues to bark at the girl, but she refuses to be deterred and her pale jaw elongates and widens, pouty little girl's lips shuddering away into a dark mouth, lined with long, thin teeth.

"Oh, shit," Sam hears himself whisper, Dean echoing the words.

She drags him forward with impossible strength, stretching his arms out in front of her now gaping maw, and then carefully lines her teeth up along his arm at the elbow and bites.

Sam howls, nearly wrenching his arm out of socket as he jerks away, trying to free the limb.

It only gets worse.

Something slick and hot slides along the portion of his arm in her mouth and Sam moans, realizing that it's her tongue. That the little-- _whatever she is_ _\--_ is tasting him.

Then her tongue withdraws and the wide mouth opens carefully, long teeth sliding easily out of the wounds. She releases Sam's arm and he collapses backwards even as her face re-forms into the sweet little girl facade. Blood flows freely from an arch of closely spaced holes stretching from the middle of Sam's forearm all the way up to his bicep.

"SAM? SAM!" Dean is shouting.

"I--I'm okay, Dean," Sam tells him shakily, staring, fixated at the wound. It's enormous.

"Like hell you are!" Dean snaps.

The little girl has a few drops of his blood at the corner of her mouth and a tiny pink tongue pokes out to swipe them up. She smiles at him and says, "Not bad. A little too much height, I think. Not as much muscle as I expected."

Sam swallows and tries not to freak out even though he can feel the shudders of horror and revulsion building up inside him.

"...get my hands on you, I'm going to--to..."

Dean's threats falter as the little girl turns her gaze to him, purring, "Your turn."

"Don't even think about it!" he snaps, but the color drains slowly from his face, his jerks at the manacles growing more frantic. A thin tendril of blood trickles down the inside of his arm.

The girl's smile just grows wider. "I think I'm going to like you," she murmurs.

"Fuck," Dean breathes, staring as the girl's face morphs again into the wide, toothy mouth.

She makes no move to loose Dean's arm and Sam's stomach lurches. What the hell is she--

"Don't you frigging--AAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!"

It's teeth bury into the meat of Dean's thigh and Sam's head jerks in the opposite direction, breaths coming hard and fast. This is NOT HAPPENING.

The girl-creature lets out a hmming noise of pleasure and Dean moans, the shackles rattling as he struggles.

The--feeding--or whatever it was had seemed to go on forever when it was Sam, but it seems even longer now. Dean's face grows red with strain, blood trickling in thin rivulets down both wrists, moisture beading at the corners of his eyes as he spits mindless curses.

Finally, the girl's head shifts and her jaw opens, teeth retracting and shivering out of existence as she steps back. The thigh of Dean's jeans is dark with blood, the arc of punctures giving glimpses of bright red beneath. He lets out a low moan, eyes cracking open just enough to see the girl beaming at him.

"I was right," she says, barely restrained glee in her voice. "You're _delicious!_ Full of muscle and raw power. Sex appeal and strength. _Perfect_."

Dean takes a shuddering breath and spits, "Fuck you."

The little girl just smiles and pats his stomach. "I'll be back for seconds later," she promises.

When the door closes behind her, Dean groans and snaps, "Sam, what the _hell_ was that?"

Sam shakes his head and keeps shaking it. "I don't know. I don't know, Dean. I--I don't know what she is. It. What it is. What. I don't--" His mouth works, words failing and Dean's eyes open again, zeroing in on him.

"Sam, don't you dare crack on me now. I swear to God--"

Sam shakes himself and sucks in a deep breath. "I'm not. I'm fine. I'm...I'm...okay, fine might be an overstatement. Just--give me a second."

"Get it together fast, Sammy. That freakin' thing just had a big helping of Dean Winchester slurpee and that is _not okay with me!_ "

"Okay," Sam says, arms drawn up close to his chest. "Okay. Based on what she--it--whatever--said, it--it sounds like she's feeding off of us--or, I guess, you--to...I don't know, absorb some of your traits."

"Well, I don't want to share, dammit! Especially if sharing involves chewing my frigging leg off!"

For all of his bluster, the episode has clearly taken it out of Dean because he can't seem to hold himself up any longer, his eyes refusing to open further than half-mast. "Just...frigging...figure somethin' out, Sam."

"Okay, Dean. Okay."


	3. Deliver Me From Evil

Dean is somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness when the door creeps open again, sending Sam skittering back from the edges of sleep. "Dean!" he calls sharply and his brother's head shoots up, eyes fluttering.

"Wh--mn--" He blinks and spots the girl as she steps through the door.

Only she isn't a girl anymore.

Not exactly.

"Oh my god," Sam mumbles, staring.

She's taller--at least five or six inches--and her face has grown more angular, more masculine. Sam's stomach lurches as he recognizes the angle of the jaw, the narrow shoulders his brother had had in his early teens, and most disturbingly of all, the flare of his own nose just beneath the girl's round, pale eyes.

"Hell, no," Dean breathes, wrenching at the manacles, his face contorting in pain a second later. "Sam!"

Sam's heart throbs in his chest painfully as he sits on his hip, hands held up in a useless defensive pose. He's primed to protect his brother, but there's so little he can do. When the girl walks past, he lunges for her, trying just to get even the hem of her skirt between his fingertips, but he misses, jarring his leg and barely biting back a cry.

Dean screams this time.

When it's over, the creature, a mix of his brother and a dark-haired girl, beautiful, androgynous, steps back, blood dripping from her mouth, leaving a trail of droplets down the front of the now-strained fabric of the white dress. She lifts a hand, drawing a single finger through the blood oozing from the half-moon of punctures in Dean's side.

She smiles with Dean's lips and slides her finger into her mouth, licking it clean with a rapturous expression.

Sam can't take it and he loses the scant contents of his stomach to the cobblestones.

After the creature is gone, Sam struggles with his restraints until his wrists are rubbed raw and bloody.

“Sam,” Dean rasps, prying his eyes open. “Sam, stop! Okay, dude? Please, just...”

“ _No_ . I'm not going to let her just kill you, Dean!” His shirt is soaked through with sweat from the strain and because the stone floor is freezing, he can't stop shivering.

“You're not helping me like this!” Dean snaps. “Just--take a break, okay?”

“Fine...” Sam mutters, a chill rippling down his spine as he lets his head drop to the floor. “Okay. Are you happy now?”

“Oh, yeah, ecstatic.”

Exhaustion has been pulling at Sam for some time now and despite his shivering it doesn't take long for him to drift into a restless sleep.

~ * ~

Sam wakes to the sound of Dean grunting--a noise borne out of pain. He jerks up, adrenaline flooding into his veins and nearly goes back down as his head spins wildly. Fighting a surge of nausea, he pants, “Dean?”

“Relax--Sammy,” Dean grits. His voice sounds strained, but Sam can't see the creature when he looks up and his panic slips down a few notches.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

Something caused his brother to make that noise though, so he keeps looking. And what he finally does see is that one of Dean's wrists is free.

“Dean,” he asks, dread bubbling up inside him, “what did you do?”

Tendrils of blood have streaked down Dean's arm and dried in dark, meandering trails, but more telling is the still-bright blood smeared around his wrist and all over the widest part of his hand. His thumb looks...wrong and Sam's eyes dart up to Dean's face again, his gut twisting.

“What did you _do?_ ”

The muscle in Dean's cheek rolls as he swallows and then opens his eyes. That flinty look of determination Dean learned from their father is in his eyes. “I did what I had to do, Sam.”

He goes back to what he was doing, gritting his teeth as he reaches into his pocket, thumb dangling uselessly from the side of his hand.

“ _Dean--_ ”

Another grunt of pain and Dean draws his hand back out. He flicks his wrist and Sam stares as a tiny glint of metal hits the stone floor in front of him with a quiet tinkling sound.

“Hurry up,” Dean orders, voice rough. “We probably don't have much time and you're not going to be able to pick the lock on your wrists.”

Sam swallows down another surge of nausea and takes the lock pick between shaking fingers. “I'm going to get you out of here, Dean,” he swears.

“I know, Sammy,” Dean mutters. His eyes are closed, dark lashes and circles beneath his eyes standing out like beacons against the extraordinary paleness of his face. “I know.”

~ * ~

It takes a few tries, but Sam gets the lock on the shackle around his ankle open and it clatters to the ground. “Okay, Dean,” he says, “here I come.”

“It's about time,” Dean grumbles, but it's a token effort. He's stopped trying to hold himself upright and there seems to be more blood on his clothes than not.

Sam starts to get to his feet, but quickly remembers that his ankle is out of commission when it flares with pain at the slightest pressure. He swears under his breath and then proceeds to drag himself across the cell.

Then he digs his fingers into the gaps between the bricks on the wall and begins hauling himself upright, struggling to use his uninjured leg without jarring the injured one.

He feels lightheaded and his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth when he finally manages to prop himself up against the wall. The tips of his fingers are bloodied and sore and when he unclenches his fist, he has to pull the lock pick out from where it has embedded itself in his palm. “It's okay, Dean,” he pants, reaching for the lock that binds Dean's arm. “I'm gonna get you out of here.”

Dean gives a dry breath of a laugh and his eyes crack open just enough to peek at Sam. “You'll be lucky if you can get _you_ out of here with that bum leg, Sammy.”

“I'm not leaving you behind so don't even start,” Sam grits through his teeth. The lock gives a few quiet metallic clicks as he manipulates it with the pick and then slides open. “There,” he says triumphantly. He yanks the lock away and tosses it to the ground. Dean lets out a stifled noise of pain as the grip on his wrist loosens and then disappears altogether and his legs crumple beneath him.

“Shit!”He curls up with a groan and Sam does the only thing he can do--he pushes off of the wall and drops down beside his brother, crying out as the landing jars his leg.

“Dean?” he demands, his voice cracking.

“I'm...fine, Sammy,” Dean says breathlessly. The lines carved into his face disagree, but Sam realizes it doesn't really matter--not right now. “We...have to get out of here.”

“Can you walk?” Sam asks and now the fear is growing, slipping into his chest and curling up at the bottom of his stomach where it writhes like a living thing inside him. Getting free of the restraints will be useless if neither of them can walk.

Dean shakes his head and says, “Only one way to find out.”

The process of getting up a second time is even more exhausting, but Sam manages because Dean is there, lending him what little help he can. It's not the pain that's getting to Dean, it's the blood loss and the subsequent weakness. Sam can see every muscle trembling with effort.

Finally, Sam is standing and Dean slides under his arm. “I can be your crutch, dude,” he says, “but there's no way in hell I can hold your gigantic ass up, so don't even try it.”

Sam grits his teeth and does his best not to.


	4. Grant Me Peace

Dean limps slightly with each step, Sam struggling not to put too much weight on his shoulders.

When they reach the cell door Sam only hesitates a little. He shares a brief look with his brother and then takes a deep breath and pushes it open.

Nothing greets them on the other side and they both breathe sighs of relief. They shuffle-limp out into the hallway and Dean jerks his head to the left.

“This way.”

Dean's innate sense of direction has never failed them before, so Sam doesn't question him.

They don't have to go far before the tunnel is pitch black. They're walking blind.

Sam trips on something in the dark, struggling to muffle a sharp cry of pain and Dean decides enough is enough.

There's a soft metallic _shink_ in the dark and a small flame bursts to life.

“You okay?” Dean asks, voice low and rough with pain and exhaustion and for a second Sam can see clearly how absurd they are, both suffering, both in danger, and still more worried about the other than anything else.

He laughs and nods. “Yeah, Dean. I'm good. Let's just get the hell out of here.”

It's quiet except for the sound of their shuffling footsteps in the dirt and they expend half their energy looking over their shoulders, but finally they reach the tunnel's end and find themselves looking at a slanted trapdoor, just above Sam's eye-level. If either of them were uninjured they could probably just climb out.

As it is, it's going to take a little more creativity.

“All right,” Dean breathes, “Let's get this sucker open.”

They put their hands on the trap door and shove, grunting in surprise when it doesn't immediately swing open. Sam can hear tearing sounds though--grass must have grown over the outside of the door. “Keep pushing,” he tells Dean.

The trap door finally gives under their combined efforts and swings back with a soft _whoomph._ Cool, damp air gives way to warm humidity and Sam closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath and just basking in the feeling of it on his chilled skin.

When he opens his eyes again, he can see the stars smattered like paint across the dark blue sky, the tendrils of a weeping willow's branches waving gently overhead in the breeze. The moon is somewhere Sam can't see, but its bright silver light is everywhere.

“Sam,” Dean prompts, fingers prodding him gently in the side. “Move it, man. We're not on vacation.”

“Yeah, right--” Sam breathes and looks back at his brother. “So, how're--”

“Gimme a boost,” Dean says, gesturing with a finger.

Sam gives him a skeptical look. “Dean, you can't--”

“You can't either, Sam, so don't start,” he snaps. “Just give me a damn boost, all right?”

His tone is a keen reminder of the argument that brought them here and Sam relents, eyes flicking back the way they came. “Fine,” he mutters and laces his fingers together, leaning his hip against the wall for balance. “Go.”

Dean takes a step forward, his foot pushing down on Sam's locked hands at just the right moment to help propel him upward. Sam bites back a noise of pain when his hands bump his thigh, but he grits his teeth and pretends that the noise he's making is a grunt of effort. He's not sure how, but Dean disappears through the hole and then he's alone in the dark.

He waits, on edge, eyes flicking down periodically to check the tunnel they left behind. The moonlight doesn't reach very far and his nerves are alight with the knowledge that the girl could be just past the edge of the black. He's just starting to worry that something has happened to Dean when he hears his voice.

“Back up, Sammy.”

Sam doesn't wait for an explanation, just shuffles back along the wall away from the hole. Not even ten seconds later a wooden crate comes tumbling through the hole. A second follows shortly after. “Nice, Dean,” he murmurs to himself, reminded, not for the first time, that his brother is no idiot.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, I got it, Dean,” he calls back and hops forward, one arm stretched out to the wall to keep him balanced. He stacks the crates, which look about a hundred years old, but sturdy. Fortunately, Dean thought of everything and the bottom crate is larger than the top, creating an improvised set of steps. Not that they're going to be much easier to climb with a busted leg than a simple tower, but it's something.

Sam considers the crates until he can feel Dean getting antsy up top.

It's his ankle that really throws a fit when he tries to use it, so Sam tries to circumvent that problem by using his knees. It still hurts with almost mind-altering intensity, but even on his knees it means Sam is a good three feet closer to the hole. If he could stand, he could probably climb out with just a hand to steady him.

But he can't and all the scenarios he can account for involve putting weight on an ankle that won't take it.

If he doesn't do it, he's stuck down here though, and he knows there's no way in hell Dean's going to let that happen, so he sucks in a breath and calls unsteadily, “Okay, Dean. I'm ready.”

Dean's face appears in the opening then, schooled into a carefully neutral expression, and he stretches out a hand. He knows, too. Of course he knows. His gaze meets Sam's, steady.

They lock their hands together, Sam's heart starting to pick up speed as reality sinks in. His grip has got to be painful, but Dean doesn't even flinch.

“Okay, Sam,” he says. “On the count of three. One--two-- _three!”_

Dean pulls and Sam pushes his feet up underneath him. The agony is instant, like wildfire, erupting in his ankle and spreading like lightning through his whole body. Sam thinks he screams, but the pain is everywhere and in just his ankle all at once.

“Sam! Sam, come on, man! Breathe! _Sammy!_ ”

The panic curled around every letter of his name brings Sam back to himself and he sucks in a whaling breath then forces himself to let it out slow. His face is wet. His whole leg feels like it's burning from the inside. He can feel prickly grass under his back, poking at his scalp.

“Sam?” Dean demands, face blocking out the stars. “Are you okay? Sam, answer me, goddamnit.”

“Sure,” Sam croaks breathlessly, “I'm peachy.”

Dean lets out a long breath, his entire body sagging as the tension drains out. “Dammit, Sam.”

“I had to--”

He turns his face away. “Shut up. Just--shut up, okay? You need that air for breathing.” He gets to his feet, moving like a thousand-year-old man and mutters, “I'm going to find you a crutch. Just--stay there.”

And because his leg still hurts, and because Dean sounds so worn out, Sam just nods.

Dean's uneven footsteps in the grass are muffled and eventually Sam can't hear them anymore over the sound of crickets chirping--frogs probably, too. The dampness of the ground is becoming dampness on his shirt, but it's warm enough that he doesn't mind. Southern heat is thick, like a woolen blanket around his shoulders. At one point he opens his eyes and sees a small, soft yellow light fade into existence and then back out. A few seconds later it returns, a little further to the left. Then there are two of them, drifting lazily over his head.

Fireflies.

He's smiling when Dean returns.

“What are you so happy about?” Dean asks, but he doesn't sound like he really wants to know.

“Nothing,” Sam says and sits up, carefully. “What did you find?”

“Part of a fence.” Dean holds the MacGyver crutch out and Sam can barely conceal his amusement. It's a rough, worn-looking stick of wood that's nearly as tall as Dean is. It's not going to be comfortable, but Dean's undershirt is wrapped around the top to make it a little more so.

“What?” he demands when Sam looks at him. “There weren't a lot of options, okay?”

Sam just rolls his eyes. “Help me up.”

With Dean's help he gets on his feet again and tucks the crutch under his arm. It cants his shoulders at an awkward angle, and kind of hurts his armpit, plus it gives him three splinters in the first two minutes of gimping around with it, but it's still better than nothing.

Dean brushes off his thanks. “Let's just get the hell out of here before the new mini-me comes back.”

Sam finally takes a good look at the scenery around them. They're beneath a weeping willow about thirty feet away from the fence where Dean “borrowed” his crutch from. The fence lines a long dirt driveway that leads to an old plantation mansion. A warm, lazy breeze rustles the calf-high grass, fluttering the tendrils of the weeping willow around them. Fireflies fade in and out of view, drifting in languid patterns through the air, yellow against a blue landscape. It's idyllic; disturbing considering where--and what--they've just come from. The house looks rundown, abandoned, probably for a long time, and also their only hope of finding the tools they're going to need to get out of here.

When he looks back at Dean, his brother has his uninjured hand against the tree, his body bowed. His eyes are closed, a line of strain drawn down the middle of his forehead. Moonlight catches on a light sheen of sweat at his temples.

Sam frowns, gimping toward him. “Dean?”

Dean's eyes open, bright, and he looks so, _so_ tired. “What?”

The words _Are you okay?_ stick in Sam's mouth. After a second he gathers himself and edges his crutch toward the house in an invitation. “You coming?”


	5. Take Up Shield and Armor

Up close, it's evident that the house has been abandoned for years. The once white paint has been all but obliterated by time, left peeling and discolored where it still clings to the wood. Moss and other plant life has taken over all up the walls. One broken window to the left of the porch allows a few leafy branches to peek out.

Only one of the five broad steps that ascends to the porch is damaged, fortunately. Sam isn't optimistic that they're going to find much inside, but they have to try.

He grimaces, stopping at the base of the steps. Dean keeps going, straight up onto the porch without him. “Come on, Sam,” he calls back over his shoulder. “No way you're staying out here by yourself.”

There's no sympathy in his voice for the hell Sam is going to go through in the next few minutes, but Sam knows it's only because there's nothing he can do to make it easier. Pretending he doesn't care is just Dean's way of dealing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam mutters, grimaces again, and then starts the lurching, painful process of getting up the steps.

Dean is already inside the house when Sam makes it to the porch. His leg is throbbing mercilessly. He's still there, riding out the pain when Dean returns.

“Found a chair,” he says. The remains of said chair are in his hands, along with a black wrought iron poker.

“Wood's for my leg?” Sam guesses and Dean grins back humorlessly.

“You got it.”

“Awesome.”

Dean helps lower Sam down on the porch because here's as good as anywhere. After placing the wooden poles that had probably comprised the chair's back, Dean looks up at him, drawing a yellowed curtain Sam hadn't noticed out of his back pocket. “You ready for this?”

“Hell, no,” Sam says and lies down, putting both hands over his face. His heart is doing that anxious fluttering thing again, already anticipating the pain.

“All right then,” Dean says and gets to work. Sam can't help flinching at every touch, despite how careful Dean is. He's wound up tighter than a bowstring, knowing at any second Dean is going to start pulling the improvised ties tight and it's going to--

Sam stifles the noises as best he can, gritting his teeth and pressing his wrist into his mouth, but _goddamnit it hurts._

When it's finally over, Dean smacks him on the sternum and snaps, “Breathe, you idiot!”

Sam sucks in a huge breath and it hitches in his chest. It hurts to breathe after holding it in for so long and he's helpless to stop the sob-like pants that result.

“Moron,” Dean mutters, checking over his handiwork. “You know better than to stop breathing like that.”

“God, I hate you,” Sam breathes, muffled, from beneath the palms pressed to his face.

Having his leg splinted does, eventually, make Sam feel better though. Immobilization keeps every little movement from causing shocks of rippling pain, which is a relief because they're not going to be sitting around anytime soon.  
  
Dean keeps watch while he's recovering from the splinting. He's sitting on the floor between Sam and the door, his injured hand cradled in his lap. "You should wrap those wounds," Sam tells him at one point.  
  
Dean snorts. "I'm not wrapping nasty-ass hundred-year-old curtains around my bloody wounds, Sam. That'd do way more harm than good." He pauses and then adds, "Besides, they're mostly clotted anyway."  
  
Sam glances at the itchy dark brown trails crusted around his elbow and grants Dean that. The punctures sting and ache, but they're too small to bleed _too_ much. And protecting them from infection is kind of pointless since they're bite wounds. So he lays there and waits for his leg to cope.  
  
A couple of fireflies have ambled into the house and they're drifting in lazy loop-de-loops overhead. "Do you remember the last time we saw fireflies?" Sam asks.  
  
"You mean in Iowa when that Kelpie tried to drown our asses?" Dean says, still focused intently outside.  
  
Sam smiles ruefully. "Yeah, that time."  
  
"What about it?"

Sam shrugs. "Nothing,” he says. “I like them."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. "God, you're such a damn girl. Are you sure you don't have a vagina?"  
  
"Are you sure you don't have another asshole where your heart is supposed to be?" Sam shoots back.  
  
"Bitch."  
  
"Jerk."  
  
Dean sighs and then drags himself to his feet, hanging onto the door frame, his knees trembling. "All right, Sasquatch. That's enough slacking. Let's get this show on the road," Dean says, reaching down and hooking an elbow under Sam's arm.

When they're upright, Dean hands his crutch over and Sam looks across the firefly dotted yard and asks, "What are we going to do now, Dean?"  
  
His brother looks like he'd like to just lie down and pass out for a few hours, but he rubs a hand over his face and says, "Well, we got two options 's I see it. One, we head out find a road and hope we get picked up by a good Samaritan before mini-me catches up to us then come _back_ and gank her--it--me-- _whatever_ \--when we've got a plan or _two_ , we gank mini-me and then go wait for our good Samaritan when she can't hunt us down and kill us like dogs."  
  
"We don't even know what she is," Sam says. "How can we kill her if we don't even know where to start?"

Dean lifts the poker and lets it drop back onto his shoulder. “Give'r a little bit of everything we got.”

~ * ~

Sam considers all their options--it's his job as the sensible one--but the decision to stay, to hunt this _thing_ down, is really no decision at all. It is wearing Dean's face after all.

"Okay, so we've got iron," he says, starting to compose a mental list of things-that-usually-kill-stuff.  
  
"And fire," Dean adds, flicking open his lighter.  
  
"Silver?" Sam suggests.  
  
Dean tosses a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the depths of the house. "Found some silverware in there, but I don't think it's the real thing."  
  
"So no silver," Sam sighs.  
  
Dean shrugs, eyes focused on the front yard again. "Decapitation's always a good one."  
  
"Taking out the heart works pretty well usually, too," Sam agrees thoughtfully.  
  
Dean looks at the poker in his hand. "Okay, so, iron poker through the heart, hack the bitch's head off, and then light 'er up."  
  
Sam imagines it going down. "Sounds good to me. If it gets any more complicated than that, we're screwed either way."  
  
Dean snorts. "No shit."

A thought occurs to Sam. “What are we going to cut her head off with?”

“Should be an ax out back, long as it wasn't Abraham Lincoln's preferred vamp hunting tool or anything.”

“All right,” Sam says, “Let's go find us an ax.”


	6. Yea Though I Walk Through the Valley

The back “yard” of the plantation is even more expansive than the front. There's one enormous old weeping willow in the center around wide spaces of the same calf-high grass from the front yard. The entire thing is ringed by bayou, trees with extruding roots crowding close together in waterlogged soil.

“Ah ha!” Dean crows triumphantly, pointing to their left where an old wooden shack is hunched down. A long handle is propped next to it's door, head hidden by the long grass.

“You don't know that's an ax,” Sam says, skeptical because if it _is_ an ax, the odds that it's going to work are--

Dean grabs the handle and pulls out the--ax.  
  
Sam shakes his head and sighs. It's like Dean has a homing beacon for weapons. He's irresistibly drawn to them, no matter where they are.  
  
The ax head clangs noisily against the iron poker already in Dean's hand.  
  
Both he and Dean wince. Up till now they've managed to be fairly quiet. "Guess now's as good a time as any to ring the dinner bell," Dean mutters.  
  
"You think it's already after us?" Sam asks, eyes sweeping around the yard.  
  
"I figure we been out almost three hours, give or take. That, plus the hour and a half or so we were inside means it's been maybe five hours since it fed last. Now, I know I'm not totally reliable right now, but I think it was about that long the last time, too." He glances over at Sam for confirmation and Sam shrugs.  
  
"Yeah, about that."

“So she should be coming back for a snack that isn't there pretty soon. I doubt it'll take her long to figure out where we went.”

Sam murmurs an agreement, but he's distracted. Something suddenly feels off. He frowns, eyes scanning the quiet ring of trees. It looks the same; a light breeze rustles the grass and the tendrils of the weeping willow flutter gently. But something...

Then it hits him.  
  
The frogs and crickets have gone silent.  
  
Sam's breath catches in his throat. "Dea--"  
  
Behind him, Dean lets out a cry that's half-expletive, half-scream and Sam snaps back around, horror bubbling up in his chest.  
  
Dean's own fingers are wrapped in a crushing grip around his wounded hand. The creature looks _exactly_ like his brother now. A little younger, a little paler, and still with that disturbing hint of Sam's nose, but otherwise a perfect likeness. He's dressed in in a tattered old white tunic and breeches that Sam guesses the creature found somewhere in the house or in the tunnels.

Dean lets out a panting noise of pure agony, his face bleached white.  
  
" _Dean!_ "  
  
Sam hobbles forward, knowing he has to help his brother, even if he doesn't know how.  
  
Dean has fought with worse though, and Sam sees it the second he manages to regroup. Color floods into his cheeks and his teeth grit together. The iron poker and the ax still in his hand swing up, ramming longside into the monster's head with a clanging sound that hurts Sam's ears.  
  
The creature howls and loses it's grip on Dean's hand. He immediately stumbles away, flapping his hand at Sam. “Go, _go!”_ he barks.

Sam does. Moving so quickly hurts so bad he thinks he may have gouged open the flesh under his arm, but he goes anyway, hoping Dean has some kind of a plan. They're plowing through the hanging tendrils of the weeping willow when Dean snarls and shouts, “Get off of me, you son of a--”

The loud _whoomph_ of bodies hitting the ground follows and then Dean screams again.

Sam turns back and hurls himself at them, barely visible in the long grass. “Get off of him!” he yells. He slams into the creature like a linebacker, but its teeth are already firmly embedded in the muscle of Dean's shoulder. He's thrashing around, cheeks flushed red and standing out starkly against the deathly pallor of his face. Sam shoves and shoves, but it's no use. It's like trying to move a boulder.

Dean's struggling weakens, flailing arms reduced to twitching, then his eyes roll back in his head and he goes still.

Before Sam can work up to a real panic, the creature draws back, lifts its head, and smiles at him.

Terror shudders through Sam in waves. That smile is Dean's.  
  
A ring of blood circles his mouth and Dean's tongue slides out, licking it clean. His eyes close in rapture. "He tastes _so_ good."  
  
Sam feels like he's going to be sick again.  
  
Sam gropes for the weapons, his breathing harsh, and pulls back with the poker in his hand. He scoots back through the grass on his butt, propelling himself with one leg, ignoring the sharp protests of the other as best he can. The creature follows him, a predatory grin on Dean's stolen face.  
  
Sam hits the tree and scrambles to his feet with the help of it and the poker. For a second his vision explodes in a burst of white. When it fades, he's face to face with his brother.  
  
Only he's never been terrified of his brother.  
  
He stumbles back, slipping around the tree and he waves the poker at  
  
 _notdeannotdeannotdeannotdean_  
  
"Stay away from me," he rasps, knuckles going white around the poker.  
  
Dean smiles, teeth gleaming in the moonlight, and Sam swallows, trying hard not to hyperventilate. It's not Dean, he knows it's not Dean, but he's not sure he can kill it when it _looks_ like--  
  
It steps closer and Sam swings the poker; the sharp point catches not-Dean across the chest and he hisses, ordinary blood springing up in a long line. It feels the pain, but otherwise the iron seems to have no effect. Great.  
  
It looks up at him, a black expression on its face, and growls, "Why must you do this the hard way?"  
  
The words sound foreign on Dean's tongue and Sam shudders. "You're not going to take my brother," he says, fighting against the quivering of his jaw, "And you can't have his body, either!"  
  
He lashes out with the poker again, but the creature deflects it with a move that's pure Dean Winchester. Sam falls back, moving around the tree again. Another strike is blocked.  
  
Then it makes its own move and Sam's head snaps back from the blow. It aims a fist at Sam's broken leg and he only just manages to block it with the poker. Fear prickles up the back of Sam's neck, writhes in his stomach. He never could beat his brother sparring. If the creature absorbed his skills, too--  
  
Dean's fist hits him in the jaw, only there's no pull-back, no softening of the strike. Sam's head snaps to the side and he sways back precariously, stars exploding behind his eyes. Dean's hand fists around the front of his shirt--hits him in the solar plexus and Sam's grip on the poker starts to flag.  
  
Then callused fingers wrap around his own and his brother rasps in his ear, " _Die_ , you little bitch."  
  
Sam's stomach settles, determination stealing through him. Dean stands behind him, he can _feel_ his familiarity, his strength leeching into him. Their hands thrust forward together and the poker plunges through not-Dean's chest, through its heart, and imbeds itself on the other side in the trunk of the willow tree. He and Dean grunt at the reverberations from the impact.

Not-Dean gurgles, eyes wide and the expression wrenches something in Sam's chest. Dark blood oozes up between Dean's lips and dribbles down his chin, a strange choking sound slipping out along with it.

Then Dean's hand--the _real_ Dean--wraps around Sam's arm and he says, “Come on, Sammy, let's finish this.”

Sam tears his eyes away from the image of his dying brother.

Only his actual brother, holding on to his arm like it's the only thing holding him up, might still be dying. There are dark circles around his eyes that weren't there minutes ago. His whole body sags like the mere effort of standing is too much.

Dean looks away, ashamed, when he says breathlessly, “You're gonna hafta...get the head. I don't think I can...” He waves his hand and looks exhausted.

Sam nods and despite the anxiety fluttering low in the base of his throat, he croaks, “Yeah, okay.”

He finds the ax in the grass and then uses it to limp closer to the pinned creature and the tree. Taking a deep breath, he tries to look without seeing and then swings the ax awkwardly. The sound it makes when it hits will fuel nightmares for years. He swallows back a surge of nausea, grimly determined, and wrenches the ax free. It takes almost a dozen more of the wobbling blows of the ax before, finally, the creature's head separates and drops to the ground with a soft thump.

Sam barely restrains a convulsive gag and Dean seems to realize that something is wrong.

“ Hey,” he breathes. “'s okay, Sammy. It's not me.”

Sam nods, not knowing how to explain that it doesn't matter. That seeing it just grants his worst fears a greater clarity. He breathes heavily and waves his hand at the tree. “Just...light it up.”

Dean nudges the head back to the creature's feet with the toe of his boot, grimacing at his own upturned face. Fortunately, the old fabric it had selected for clothing lights fairly easily. Accelerant would do a better job, but beggars can't be choosers. Dean steps back as the flames crawl up one pant leg and he shoos Sam back. Eventually the whole thing will catch.

Together they hobble away from the tree. They're just reaching the shed when the monster's corpse goes up with a _fwoosh_ of abruptly consumed oxygen _._ Sam looks at Dean and sees the same thought go through his brother's head.

_Good thing they didn't skip the fire._

After that, the flames quickly creep from the body onto the trunk of the willow and, from there, up into the branches, out onto the gently swaying leafy tendrils. Within ten minutes, the entire tree is alight, flames crackling so loud it's a dull roar, the heat almost unbearable, even from the back porch. The long dangling branches burn into ash and then crumble into tiny glowing embers and bits of ash that catch in the breeze, swirling around the yard like fireflies. He and Dean watch until the leaves are all gone, the branches and trunk blackened and smoldering orange in patches, like hidden gold twinkling in the dark. The fireflies return, along with the chirping crickets and it's that sound that convinces Sam it's really over.

“Let's get out of here,” Dean murmurs wearily.


	7. And I Will Give You Rest

Sam quickly realizes that the hunt may be over, but the ordeal is not. It takes he and Dean nearly an hour to hobble down the old dirt driveway to the road. They have to stop six times because Dean's so dizzy he feels like he's on a tilt-a-whirl. Two of those times they stop because he almost goes down--it's only Sam's arm and Dean's stubborn determination that stop him from passing out.

When they do get to the road, Sam is not encouraged. It's dirt, too.  
  
"Shit," Dean mutters wearily and flops down on the ground. "We might be in trouble, Sammy."  
  
"No," Sam says stubbornly, scouring the road for any signs of recent use, "We did not get this far just to give up now!" He knows Dean's willingness to throw in the towel is the blood loss talking, but that doesn't reassure him in the slightest.  
  
The road isn't overgrown so there have to be at least a few cars that travel this way everyday; that's something.

Despite the night's warmth, it doesn't take long before Dean is shivering uncontrollably. Sam unwraps the t-shirt from his crutch, tossing it into Dean's lap. He stares at it blankly for a minute before it finally seems to dawn on him. With stiff, uncooperative hands, he pulls off his flannel shirt and tugs the t-shirt back on. Then the flannel goes back on, pulled tight around him, but unbuttoned. The shivering continues.

Sam eases himself down as best he can, wincing as he lands on a pointed rock and then edging as close to Dean as he dares. He gets a dirty look for his efforts, but Dean's basic self-preservation instincts won't let him reject a perfectly viable heat source. Within minutes their sides are pressed flush together, Dean's shivering vibrating against Sam's shoulders, ribs, and hips.

The moon inches lower on the horizon and Dean's head sinks down onto Sam's shoulder. Sam looks at the sky and closes his eyes, his fingers curling around his brother's clammy forearm. He's afraid of shock and infection and exsanguination wouldn't be a problem if it were just the wounds, but there's no way to know how much the creature took during its feedings. Then there's the fact that he has no idea when either of them ate last, or drank, or any of that. Any of those things could be the thing that tips Dean past the point of holding on until they get back to civilization and dying out here in the middle of nowhere.

Sam doesn't realize he's on the verge of hyperventilating until Dean prods him in the ribs and murmurs, “Wha's the deal, Sammy? Calm down. 's dead, remember?”

Sam gulps and tries to control his breathing, to stuff down the panic that's seething up the walls of his insides. “I know,” he says. “I just--” He can't lose Dean, too. Not like this. Not so soon after-- His throat pulls so tight it feels like the flesh is splitting.

Dean's eyes crack open and creep over to look up at him. “'m gonna be fine, Sam.”

“You don't know that!” Sam bursts and then presses a hand over his mouth, smothering the outburst before it can get out of control.

Dean's shoulder rises and falls against his in a sigh. “Do, too,” Dean mutters. “'ve felt like this before.” He snorts and then amends, “Worse'n this.”

“That doesn't mean you're going to--”

Dean huffs, irritation tensing his body and abruptly Sam realizes that it doesn't matter. If Dean's going to die out here, he's going to die out here, and arguing about it isn't going to change anything. “You're right,” he mumbles. “I'm sorry.”

Dean's confusion is palpable and Sam smiles. “Come aga'n?”

“You're right and I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the tantrum, too. From before... It was stupid and pointless and...well, I'm sorry.”

If Dean is going to die, which he _isn't_ , they're going to part on good terms.

Dean sniffs, relaxing against Sam's side again and he mutters, “Me, too.”

“You, too, what?” Sam cajoles, teasing in his voice.

He can feel Dean's glare despite not being able to see it. “I'm sorry for treating you like a kid, okay?” He grumbles unintelligibly for a minute and then tacks on, “Bitch.”

Sam's smile breaks into a grin. “Jerk,” he says fondly.

Later, when dawn is just a blush on the horizon, a truck comes. Dean is groggy, but still conscious and it's then that Sam knows they're going to be okay. They'll live--both of them--to fight another day.


End file.
